A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Piercing through again. Surrounded. Five well armoured men on all sides. Delighted by it. A riddle to be solved. No time to think. A storm of his own making. A problem of his own forming. Not isolated entirely to him. Evoking action in those around him.

"PROTECT THE KING!" He heard them shout.

"FORWARDDDDD! WE FOLLOW THE KING'S CHARGE!" Verdant howled, and a thousand Patrick men roared with him.

Oliver ducked again. He tried a counterattack. Was made to abort it prematurely, as another blade threatened to come for his side. A spin, and then a hop onto one leg, barely freeing himself from the steel's reach. Another rush. So delicately did he walk that line between life and death. Each time, he gave his opponent an opportunity. He made a sacrifice of his own strength, and the Gods howled in approval for it. They presented him with more than he already had.

Two swords out of range, and eyes flashed gold, pinning them in place. An encirclement broken, without a man even being felled yet. Then Oliver was rushing through them, sword slashing, two quick snakes of the blade, and two of Tiberius' preferred soldiers were put down into the ground ahead of the rest of them.

Eyes pulled upwards. Oliver looked around, surprised. His purpose changing in an instant. His own intentions rewritten. Allied men, straight beyond the wall of the encirclement that he had cut through. Eyes aglow with passion. Emerson colours they wore, and the delight in reaching him first, beyond all others, was evident from the looks upon their faces.

Oliver grinned. Another style of attack, something else to deal with the remaining three.

"WITH ME!" He beseeched them. Ten men by the front bellowed, raising their weapons, honoured for the opportunity.

Oliver hurled himself at the middleman, more like Firyr in his recklessness than himself. He practically jumped straight into range, forcing his foe to grapple, before he could make use of his sword. A bigger man he fought against, far more weighty too for his armour. A fierce resitance, a push backwards, threatening to throw Oliver from his feet. But he turned with it, allowing the push to continue past him, moving himself out of the way. Straight into the charge of the ten men that followed after him. Unbalanced, and unready, that foe was brought down in an instant.

A gap in the middle opened up. Oliver thrust himself towards it, despite the danger, and the point of a High King spearman that awaited him beyond it. The mounting danger, the confines of the space, the warning bells of the logical mind, sitting a distance away, shouting to him, warning him against the stupidity that he dove into. No logical solution – but a solution was found anyway.

Close confines, and forced to dodge a thrust of the spear. Impossible timing, made regardless. A ring of steel, as Oliver flicked the spear point off to the side. Then it was simply flesh that awaited him. A spearman without the weapon near enough to defend himself. Oliver dealt with him mercifully. Then those ten men were rushing in after him, breaking apart the enemy.

He paused for a second, to look behind him once more, seeing the gap widening in the middle of Tiberius' formation, as more of Oliver's army pierced in after him. Then, when he looked again, those ten men with him had already advanced without him, taking down multiple heavily armoured men in the process. They operated on a level of risk that seemed unnatural. Throwing themselves, seemingly willingly, time and time again, towards what ought to have been certain death – only for victory to find them again and again each time.

Pride, Oliver felt. As proud as if he had slain those enemies himself. More men rushed past him, carrying on the cause that he had started. Excitedly pushing through the smallest of gaps, and turning it into what might have been a fatal thrust, to dismantle the likes of Tiberius' army.

But something had brought Oliver's feet to a stop. A change in feeling. No constancy. It was never enough to pursue one thing until the end of time. As fickle as nature itself, Oliver found himself now. As if he was a man whose interest was easily lost, but it was quite the opposite now. He was a man whose interest was easily gained.

He saw the arrows fall upon his foes to his left, and to his right. He then looked, and he saw the man that commanded him in Hod. Steadily, logically, wearing down the formation from both sides. A different sort of intention from Oliver's own. Stirring up something entirely.

"Gar here."

Then an aggressive youth, in front of Oliver, ragged and blood covered, he gave that pronouncement to Oliver, before he went rushing in, following that tide of men, as they sought to break through the centre of Tiberius' formation, and see it split in half.

"My Lord. Nay, your Majesty," Verdant said. "Finally, we do reach you."

A stern-faced man, eyes pale and blue, and unnerving, mounted on the back of a horse. Then a woman beside him, hair as black as the darkest night sky. The love from both of them strongly evident. Enough to hold Oliver's attention for more than a handful of seconds, as he stared at them both, in the midst of battle, and wondered what he had ever done to deserve such a strength of feeling from either of them.

"What are your intentions, King Patrick?" Lady Blackthorn asked.

Oliver looked at her. "You're tired," he noted. "You too," he said to Verdant.

"I can fight much longer than this," Blackthorn said emphatically. "You're not thinking of sending us back, are you?"

"Do understand, your Majesty, tiredness comes with every battlefield that we fight on," Verdant said. "You need not pity us for it."

"Not pitying you," Oliver said. "I'm tired too," he admitted, stretching his arms. "I will rest, for a short few moments."